They are everywhere, in everything. And age cannot wither them Intimations of immortality Profile by Yasmine El-Rashidi Lively, animated, effervescent, and all for his first, his abiding love: it would be difficult not to feel abashed in the presence of Akram Allam. Sitting in a Maadi coffee shop a few streets from home, I indulge myself by counting the many forms his enthusiasm takes. There is his voice, his hands, the brightly coloured clothes. His caffeine intake during the four-hour meeting seems entirely superfluous, though he continues to sip away at his cappuccino and his pace, if anything, accelerates. Once he gets going on his topic of choice, he is impossible to stop. "If civilisations are measured by their contributions to humanity," Allam says with what I will soon recognise as his trademark vivacity, "then no one beats the Ancient Egyptians." "Ancient Egypt is in everything we do. When you sleep on a bed, that's Ancient Egypt; when you cover yourself with a sheet, that's Ancient Egypt; when you wake up and put slippers on your feet, that's Ancient Egypt; when you comb your hair, that's Ancient Egypt; when you write like this, it's Ancient Egypt." He doesn't pause, or stop, or resurface even momentarily for air. He just continues. "When you use spices in food, or have a love affair, or have a boss, or have a dispute and go to a judge, or wash your face, or buy food, or have a party, or write an invitation, it's all Ancient Egypt. Everything you do stems from Ancient Egypt. And you know what," he gasps, finally pausing to breathe. "Our contribution to civilisation covers the world." And the world, he adds, will eternally carry the torch for those ancient traditions. "Ancient Egyptian influence covers everything, spans the globe," he insists. "It is a living influence and will never die. The Ancient Egyptians spoke endlessly about eternity," he continues, in a lowered tone, "and they have made it." They have made it, he adds, "because we will be talking about them until the end of time." Allam's attitude towards the object of his love is not unique. Every year thousands of tourists, pyramid and Pharaoh worshippers, flock to Egypt to tune-in to the mystical energies. What is different about him, though, is the way in which he manifests his passion . "All my brothers are doctors and I was the black sheep in the family, the only archeologist. They all made fun of me. I worked at many other things first," he says. "As a receptionist at the old Jolie Ville before it burnt down, as a flight attendant, and then I caught the travel bug." The bug would eventually lead him in a full circle, back to the land of his birth. "The worshippers of the gods of ancient Egypt come every year. I feel proud that my culture and heritage have this much power and influence over the people of today. We are Egyptian, Arab, Mediterranean, Middle Eastern. We have so much heritage, so much culture. We must not forget it, and we must wear all of these cultures. We need to use this history to understand people and the world better -- and to help them understand us." And that is what he tries to do, not least through his position as senior tour leader for Abercombie and Kent. "Egypt is not only the Pyramids and the Sphinx. You can read about them at home," he says, underlining the point with a shake of the head, with a gesture of the index finger. "As a guide and archaeologist my job is as much to inform people about the Egypt of today, to give them recipes, take them to koshari places, get them in touch with everyday life." Every one of his clients, he believes, is worth his undivided attention. "You should see my mailbox at Christmas. It's so full you wouldn't believe it. And I respond to every single letter. That's the advice I give anyone coming into the field." The advice, in short, is never to ignore a soul. "They think you remember them in person, the time you spent with them in detail. You can't let them down." And this he conveys without pride, without an ounce of superiority. "It's my job to encourage people to see Egypt through a different lens. I help them open their eyes and see the difference between Egypt on TV and Egypt in reality. They leave either loving it or hating it, and it is my duty to try and make it the former, or failing that, to help them appreciate their time here." At which, if his reputation is anything to go by, he must be successful. "These days I've been touring with the National Geographic team," he says, referring to the American team and their high-tech explorer robot. National Geographic first landed on the desert sands several years ago, when they sent the robot down a shaft in the pyramids at the end of which the gadget detected a door. "They're back with a more advanced robot," he explains. "The most advanced in the world. On Tuesday [16 September] it will go down the shaft and open the door. And it will be broadcast live to the world." Well, with one exception. Egyptian TV will not carry the broadcast. "We're the only country in the world not interested in the event -- in our history. It has always been the case. And then we complain that no one understands the country and the culture." He shakes his head in disbelief. "Anyway," he backtracks, "they chose me to lead them during their stay in Egypt." Many others have made the same choice, among them the rich and famous. And Allam has a binder of thank-you notes and letters of praise, to prove the point. "I've met people I will never forget," he says. "And they changed my life, and my perspectives and concepts of life and what it is." Among them are John Travolta and Roger Moore. "John couldn't take the museums," Allam laughs. "He could take it for about five minutes! And then he just wanted to chat." And this is something at which Aki, as he is known to everyone, is very good. He is, however, far from keen on sharing his celebrity encounters. His more immediate concern is the country and where it is heading. "We're in the habit of downgrading ourselves," he says. "We have everything to offer. We have a super product, but we don't know how to market it." He talks not only of tourism, but of the country as a whole. "Young guides sometimes enter the field thinking that if they read a lot they'll do a good job." Significant pause. "It just doesn't work that way. I tell them that their knowledge of the subject counts for 20 per cent. The rest is personality, the ability to interact." The Egyptian Museum is just one of the stages on which Aki regularly proves his maxim. "The museum is my playground," he says. "It changes me. I become a different person. The statues talk to me, the voices of the Pharaohs surround me, and I pass all this history on to the people in the form of a story. I act it out, put on different voices, use sound effects. I bring history to life." And this, he believes, is how to make people understand and appreciate the history, culture, and the country as a whole. "People leave a country liking it, with good memories, because of their guide. To give them what they deserve you have to put yourself in their shoes. They pay all this money to be treated well and to have a good time. Never pre-judge or criticise," he says. "And whether your tour is for one person or 80 you still have to do the work and do it well. The satisfaction is being out there, not the number of tourists you have." "Let me tell you a story," he says, out of the blue, "about a couple." He re-adjusts himself and takes a little more caffeine. "I went to the hotel where they were staying, and the concierge pointed to them," he continues. "I went up to them, said good morning, and I only got one reply," he pauses. "So I said good morning again, and again the lady ignored me. I was puzzled. And then her husband turned to me, and said 'son, she isn't listening to you. She can't hear, or speak, or see'. I was shocked. And I just stared at him. Then he pointed to her and said that there was a note in her shirt pocket for me. Well, I took the note, which was typed on a small, old piece of paper, and it said 'I have been waiting all my life to come to Egypt'. And I looked at the man again." "During the war, he told me, they had moved from shelter to shelter, in the streets, eating from garbage. And all that time his wife had talked about Ancient Egypt and the Pyramids. She was obsessed. So he promised her that one day he would take her there. "Well, the war ended, they moved to the US, and they started to make money and save, and then she had this accident. But he continued to save, and one day he bought this package to Egypt. So, you know, I asked him why he brought her all this way if she didn't even know where she was here -- she was like a human vegetable. And you know what he answered?" He answered that he was doing it for himself. Because he promised." Another pause. "And I decided that I wanted to be part of that, so I took them on my tour, and I carried her everywhere, and made sure I told her about the monuments, and where she was at, and what she was looking at. I wanted to be a part of that story; of that great thing." That interaction, and the passion to really want to share, is what he considers the core of guiding. "People don't really understand what guides do. The stereotype is of someone who leads a group of people around some monuments and the museum and just spills out some information he's learned," he says. "That's what a bad guide does. But really the job is a two-way street. When they tell you about their jobs, and families, and their states, there's interaction. You should get from them as much as they get from you. That's when the mark is left." Such marks have led to his vindication, not least in the eyes of his father. "At the beginning he didn't understand what I was doing; he felt it was a mistake," he says. "Now," he smiles, "he admits I am the most successful child, and that he is proud of me." Not that his brothers don't do a good job, but they too admit that he was the smartest of the gang. "People come to me at their best; I am their vacation and joy. People go to doctors at their worst; they are their pain and sorrow. I'm very lucky in that sense. But it also means I have a huge responsibility, I have to make sure they leave as happy as they arrived." He laughs, another outburst of the exuberance that seems to infect everything he touches. Whether he talks about his job, two daughters, Shahd and Habiba, his collections, his wife, Dolly, or food and the fact that he loves to cook, his tone never drops. "You know what got me started?" he asks and immediately answers. "My history teacher in school. I never liked school, never liked history, for sure. But one day I asked a question, and he raised his voice, and moved his hands like this," he says, moving his hands like a conductor in the air, "and said that it was a great question, the best he had heard in weeks. And it wasn't just what he said, but the way he said it," he says, speaking, I assume, in much the same way that his history teacher had. "And he inspired me to work harder, to want to show him how hard I had been working. He is the reason why I became interested in history." "I collect everything," he enthuses, "I love collecting; Coca Cola cans, wooden ducks. I love my collections -- my stamp collection is my pride and joy. And I love cooking," he continues. "Chinese is my thing these days. I buy all my ingredients from Chinatown in New York. And my gosh," the spiel unfolds. "How I love shopping." We both pause, and laugh. "It's my weak point. Sometimes I come back with nine suitcases. Big ones. I love everything. I love gadgets. The kitchen-person in me bought a bread machine on my last trip to the US. It's great! My dream, though, has always been to have a beach house. And I do now -- everything in it is from a different country." One can't help but be amused when he talks. He does not stop. "Let me tell you about Marc Lehner and Zahi Hawass," he sidetracks. "Behind the Pyramids two discoveries were made; one by Lehner, and one by Hawass." The discoveries, he says, mark a new chapter in the history of Ancient Egypt. "Hawass discovered the tombs of the Pyramid builders," he says. "The most dedicated builders were buried here, near the Pyramids, which were being built for the gods. That says a lot about how these workmen were viewed; as dedicated workmen, not slaves," he suggests. "And on a site just below, Marc Lehner discovered the workmen's village. He thought, 'well, if these people were working here, they must live near-by, so they must have left a mark'." It was a big mark too: the discovery included the national brewery, the national bakery, and remains of garlic and salt and dried fish. "The excavation started three or four yeas ago -- on the Southern side of the Sphinx," he says. "There is a new discovery made almost every day. But it's still just the tip of the iceberg." "They wanted to prepare people so that they could just pick up in death where they left off in life -- so they wouldn't need to learn everything again." There is something ironic in the fact that Allam's approach to life appears to run counter to the philosophy espoused by the ancients he so clearly loves. For him everything is different -- every day, and every time he goes to the same site, or monument, or museum. Every time, everything is different. "It's never boring because it's never the same. It may be the same building, but it's not the same people, not the same group. If you get bored, then you're not doing your job, because it means that you're repeating yourself. Besides," he says, "if you love your job it loves you back." He stops, asks when we will meet again. Notebooks are piled up and the tape recorder is put aside. It appears to be the end of the talk. But he starts again. "The Ancient Egyptians are eternity. They will be with humanity and civilisation until the end of time. We will be talking about them forever, making discoveries, living with their ways. It will never end. Their impact on society will never stop." For which reasons, Allam announces, his love of the period, the people, the place, is constant.
